X-XIV

X.

The fields are rolling, morning, noon, and night,
as we across the country make our way.
The Order gathers, garbed in black and white,
to worship and to study and to pray.

We congregate around St Mary’s Lake,
a Narnia within a weary world.
The forest and the bracken form a brake
to keep us here in peace securely furled.

For three days we as pilgrims shall retreat
to seek as one a sacred liberty.
With strength of heart and soul we gladly greet
the timeless rhythms of our liturgy.

The silence and the chanting intertwine
until I am the Lord’s and He is mine.


XI.

Two thousand one was quite a year for Death;
the first unveiling of her public shrine.
Since then her cult has grown in height and breadth
as she embodies some new dark divine.

The hidden and the horror fuel her fame,
presiding over all that death doth touch.
She offers neither judgment, grace, nor shame,
for death eschews morality as such.

What draws us to this morbid, body dame,
incarnate from the void of nothingness?
We call her Santa Muerte now by name
and ask her to our ev’ry hunger bless.

They say that for three days she held the Christ
but unlike Him, she bids no change of life.


XII.

Confession surely nourishes the soul
but it can be a hurdle high to clear.
If joy and absolution are the goal
we first must speak our secret shame and fear.

Such honesty is purgative and strong.
The truth begets a cauterizing heat.
Forgive me, Father, for it’s been so long
since I in humble trust knelt at Your feet.

We try to do our best until we don’t.
The years alone can wear a soul away.
I cannot justify, much less condone,
my multitude of sins in vast array.

I come before You tired and abashed
and here against the Rock my pain is dashed.


XIII.

In brujeria often they will leave
machetes at Our Lady’s holy shrine,
providing Her a weapon for to cleave
in twain all spirits wicked and malign.

They call Her Guadalupe but the name
might from the old Nahuatl tongue derive.
“The one who crushes serpents” sounds the same
as where the Black Madonna did arrive.

Embracing both the Christian and the pagan,
enfolding both humanity and God,
She welcomes all the poor and heavy-laden
unto a Mother’s mercy ever broad.

A Spanish Jewish Aztec holy Queen
familiar as the world has never seen.


XIV.

There once was a man on retreat
whose schedule tomorrow looked fleet.
Two sonnets today
and a lim’rick to say
that his promise of poems is complete.

“Behold the Iamb: A Gratitude”

For: RDG Stout

Behold the iamb with untarnished gait
Which Ryan sets in pentametric verse.
One foot falls soft, the next at firmer rate,
Yet not by hobble, shuffle, or a limp accursed.

Sonnet-a-day boasts he to friend and foe
(if such he has, respecting latter class),
But those of goodwill read what he does show,
Bid him our best, and trust he will surpass

The sense and subtleties of entries old
With ever newer lyric winks and nods,
From sigils, sorc’rer’s stones, more pagan gold!
Platonic forms to all Upanishads.

Ofttimes the glitt’ring gifts we hold in trust,
By alchemies, once shared, are spared all rust.

—M. D. Zelie, Sept. 19, 2022